most of the food in the fridge is moldy. she stares enviously at whatever sorry sap lost their sandwich to the rocket admin's sticky fingers. admin fox (she does not know his real name, even though people have said it in passing to him probably like five times now and this is absolutely not the first fucking time he's talked to her) has been talking to her for probably a solid ten minutes now and still, no obvious escape route has made itself known.

parker's mental schedule today:
1. kiss nomi.
2. work out.
3. kiss nomi.
4. go to work.
5. get money.
6. repeat.
7. drop off money at hq.

and here's where it gets dicey. 8 is supposed to be 'kiss nomi' again, but the minx is out somewhere on an errand. blah, blah, world-saving stuff. so parker's stupid, lovey-dovey lunch plans? gone. hence the kitchen, hence the uh-oh small talk, hence fox (horace? horatio?), hence - 

hey, wait, yeah we're talkin' about shred.

"he asked if i wanted to see his nut. i'm surprised lulu hasn't shot 'im yet."

howard slayte

☉

"fuck." stupid rubs off on her. she blames low blood sugar (FUCK, SHE'S SO HUNGRY) but quickly rights herself. "no, ew, fuck, gross. the little eyeball guy. goopy metal guy. y'think he'd still be standing if he tried 'n show me his prick?"

parker would have punched his lights out right then and there, but nomi probably could have flung him into the unown dimension to let the unown eat him. or whatever they'd do. 

do unown eat?

do they have mouths?

and if they eat, do they shit?

"i just said shot. bang, bang, kiss, kiss 'n all that 'cept probs minus the kissin' hhhh-h-man." halsin? no, that's from the weird bear fucking tiktok. "'cept minus the kissin' in his case. hell hath no fury like a woman who - who's gotta hear his pick-up lines with her own two ears."

kind of begs the question anyway - "so why's a guy like 'im want a guy like 'er? i mean, i get it, fuckin' look at me, but at least i'm hot. and what's goin' on anyway? don't we got like super tech cyborg shit now that'll make all 'is troubles go away? or at least an arm."

her eyes light up. "'m sure he could find an arm with a vibrate function."

howard slayte

☉

some mustard drips out of the corner of his mouth. the meat looks so tender and juicy. fresh pork roast, pink little slices of ham, a more than generous amount of pickles. her stomach grumbles. she does not know all that shred's been through. she does not care what shred's been through.

he's in rocket. they're in rocket. they've all been in some shit, one way or another. 

"yeah, meltan. that's 'is name." the sandwich is riddled with bites missing, but it's face up and his head is on the table now. there's a stray pickle to the right of his pinkie. 

no, don't do that. don't eat his food. that's weird. that's so weird, parker. don't take the pickle.

"should be rocket science. gods know that's what they love talkin' 'bout. that's what i told 'im too."

silence lapses. she thinks about how hungry she is. and how she could go for - 

"did you know unown feel like hot dogs?"

howard slayte

☉

her palm slams against the table, no doubt rattling his cheek, but if it does, she certainly doesn't notice. "yeah!" she starts, completely oblivious to the condescension, "like i know nomes says they're god's little angels or whatever, but sometimes i'm like, you guys are just a bunch of hot dogs stuck together with skewers, aren't you?"

the pickle pleads for mercy. parker pleads for an out. neither of them get what they want.

"oh, nah, they don't," she says, with all the confidence of someone who has tasted an unown before. her mouth waters. not because they taste particularly good or like pickles, but because it's just sitting there and it's going to get thrown away if she doesn't eat it.

"you ever put orange juice in a metal container and drink it? they taste like that."

howard slayte

☉

maybe the sandwich isn't that good, if that's what h-man wants them to taste like, except oh, she needs to learn how to listen. mint and orange juice tastes bad. good. he's a mostly normal person, probably. any normal person with a good stomach would have demolished such a beautiful-looking sandwich at this point though.

"salt rock lamp," she says bluntly and then explains, "y'know how you get one and you look at it and you're like 'i know you're just gonna taste like salt if i lick ya' but then ya do it anyway 'cause ya got it and no one's there to watch y'anyway? to be fair, i'd had a few drinks."

she's not a drunk. she doesn't want her boss thinking she's a drunk. "but y'know, drunk actions 're sober thoughts 'n all that.

"also yes, breakroom fridge's empty.

"empty as fuck."

an unown h appears. things phasing in and out of rooms barely bothers parker nowadays, which is actually insane, so she doesn't even bat an eye when it floats above the admin's head. she sucks on her teeth when its pupil flicks at the pickle. 

no way. 

experimentally, with one brow raised at it, she waits for him to look the other way and then she opens her mouth like a fish.

howard slayte

☉

the unown have a lawyer? does nomi know about that? unless he means nomi, but as far as nomi's list of avatar powers went, parker's pretty sure she's never heard her say 'they brain blasted the knowledge of a 4-year degree in law to me and helped me pass the bar.'

there is a 30% chance that it is possible and she explained as much to parker, and more than likely it happened when parker was in her boxers, lazing out the couch eating cereal and watching sonic boom.

admin fox (dumbass, call him that if you don't know his name!!!) stands up and parker smacks her lips impatiently, fingers curling on the table. at this point, with his back turned, it'd probably be faster to just reach for the damn thing herself, so she does that, only the pickle slips right out from under her and tumbles right into the air. 

you silly bastard. she swears it's squinting in laughter at her. the pickle is floating out of reach now. up, up, and away. she half-stands, shoves her arm up to try and grab it. the fridge door slams. 

she has her hand up so high and she looks like she's trying to maybe-leave-her-seat-maybe-also-take-a-shit? he turns around. she angles her hand, says too loudly, very convincingly because this is obviously what she wanted all long: 

"HIGH FIVE! put 'er THERE! my MAN!"

howard slayte

☉

waiting for a reciprocated high five is one of the worst things to happen to a human being. because you don't want to put your hand down and accept rejection - that's fucking embarrassing. it's one thing if, y'know, maybe the other person didn't realize you were going for a high-five. 

still awkward, but salvageable. 

THIS, THOUGH?

her already-forced smile looks damn near porcelain, something off a creepy doll podcast, and what's worse is the pickle is slowly drifting into her peripheral vision. taunting her. haunting her. 

and admin fox's brain consequently breaks.

what the hell is it about the men in rocket who talk to themselves in incomplete sentences whilst leaving poor parker to stand there none the wiser to the true nature of their not-one-but-two-sided conversation? is she really that bad a conversationalist? is she Too Gay? do her lesbian vibes interrupt the wavelengths of the Male Mind?

whatever it is, he finally snaps out of it and leaves her hand stinging. the satisfaction of a complete high-five ritual is a high that escapes no one, so her smile breaks into something easier, but then, right with fox still looking at her, the unown flicks the floating pickle right at parker's forehead. 

it hits with a wet splat and peels off into her waiting palm. 

she blinks and says, "anyway, good talk, houston, seeya 'round, byeeee!!!!!" and consequently lopes away and off to find some proper food. 

howard slayte

☉